Behind the Captain
by Zissors
Summary: Behind each captain is a boy. And behind each boy is a story. Anal, Bond, Exhib, HJ, Oral Yaoi
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAMER: I do not own Peter Pan nor do I profit from this story.

The night wore, the endless sky stretching beyond the naked eye's view. Stars sprinkled against god's black blanket. Peter stared hard at the night sky for what may be his last time. The blood of his comrades, the Lost Boys, mingled with the finally settled dust.

"Give up boy," Hook's voice said with its common menace. Did he have another choice? His blue eyes searched for another answer, some other option. "No," his defiant answer earned him another kick to the ribs. He was alone. No one was going to come and help him. And it was the same for him too; he had no one left to save.

Could he fight any longer? Red hair crusted with dried brown blood collected dirt as it dragged against the ground. His dagger yards away. "Two choices," Hook's mercy was sadistic in its own way, "Live or die. Live and you join my crew or rot here for all the little fairies to watch." A light ringing sound appeared in the background, Tink's own little contribution in the deal. Peter could feel Hook's heavy footsteps approaching him.

He could smell the rum, the cigars and most of all the evil. He turned away, Hook's eyes boring into him. "Answer me boy." Another flicker of blood drained out of Peter and he shut his eyes. The silver flash of Hook's sword glimmered in the darkness. The blade was driving deeper into his flesh. A flash of blue met the other's blue-eyed gaze.

"L-Live," Peter faintly whispered. The trees were weeping; he could almost hear them, their invisible tears melting into the sandy terrain. The mermaids were certainly throwing a fit but their tantrums were unheard of for they were underwater and could never have came to Peter's aid. Their only thoughts were, 'How would they live without their Prince?' How could any one on Never Land live without their Peter? He was all of them. He was the young Indian running wild in the open plains, or the old Chief protecting the younger ones from danger. He was the playful Nymphs. He was the wise oak tree. And now he was a pirate.

I just felt like writing a Peter Pan fic, so this is on a trial bases. I'm not exactly sure where this is going, haven't made a story outline yet. I usually write longer chapters (like three times this) but we shall see where how this goes.

Please review and I might continue with this story.


	2. Chapter 2

London's air has always had the image of pea soup. Thick and murky with a reassuring side of something hidden beneath the fog, or was it smog? Something could've been dangerous. Something could've been mysterious.

This particular night however, London's air was filled with something magical.

Magical?

Why yes, magical's image tonight was a ship. One dusted in a gray light, floating ominously in the black sky. It was a flying ship. A magical ship, and with all magical things there is always a darker side. You could hear the sinister cackles inside the ship. Not the mandatory 'Yo ho ho.'

But then, these were magical pirates after all. They were after all the pirates of Neverland. They were a crew, these scallywags. And with each crew is a captain. So this is where our story really begins. With our good captain, James Hook and his one obsession, Peter Pan.

I will not look up.

I refuse to look up.

I bite my lip, and look up.

Of course I gave in. Sir's whip dropped to the ground, and relief flooded throughout my body. I shivered, his cold hands running against my heated skin, freshly whipped.

God, I hate him.

I hate this feeling. I hate how he makes this happen, how I torture myself with thoughts of comfort. With thoughts that he'll be merciful.

He's never merciful.

My chains collide with one another, and the ringing noise echoes. The room is empty, I'm empty.

But not for long.

He grabs my hair, a hard yank and I'm already to my knees. I closed my eyes, trying to fall into memory. I try to fall back into a time when I could fight back. To a time when I must've won, to a time without Sir.

But it's not there. Nothing comes, it's blank.

I open my eyes. I'm back. Back in front of him.

I hate 'it.' Everything about 'it' affects me.

I can smell 'it', the strong musky scent taking my breath away. I can feel 'it', a volcano threatening to erupt centimeters from my face. I hear Sir grunting because of 'it.' I can see it, an angry red. I want to back away from the last sense, but he won't let me.

He's merciless, remember?

I open my mouth, and the bitterness fills me.

I'm not empty anymore.

He's done with me. Sir collapses against his chair, and I fall to the ground. My vision is blurry, is it from the tears that flow from my eyes? When did I start crying? I only half-hear him whisper a name.

"Oh Peter, Peter."

There's a bittersweet feel to that name.

Is it mine?

But I can't think any longer, sleep is approaching.

I can feel myself starting to dream.

So far dreaming is the closest thing I have to memory.

'


	3. Author's Note

I will no longer be logging into this account. I don't think I'll be continuing any of my stories either. But I did originally plan to re-write Pretty Things Counterfeit Convict, and Behind the Captain; however those versions will be posted on my new account:

.net/u/2055440/

If you want to know exactly when I post up those versions, then send an e-mail to:

.com

and I'll add you onto a list or whatever. Anyways thanks for reading.


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